steve dalachinsky - this scratching (duo - thurston moore & tom surgal @ the stone 11/19/05)

this scratching (duo - thurston moore & tom surgal @ the stone 11/19/05)


1.
this scratching
like facial hair against
her skin
a cat's tongue along the borders
of a hand
etched in shadows
the legs & feet of tortured machines
relaxed momentarily
ice clawing the taste buds
polka dots on pavement
ground-doors misled
by idea of spires wired into
se(a)cre(a)tion
jiggled passages of what spiraled
& gizzarded toward a lifespan
a spilifing of radar redux
the plating of organisms e-spanners
on a narrow bend
garus rags 'til suggestions are moot
these are in our own sheds we (s)wear
a caucus of orifengers on a special stride
dire tribulations
seem this endless sprig of eastern europe
a thread undone
tired astronaut leg-roomed & defying gravity's pull

what colors are these
that will not surrender to darkness?
what tumult that comes from such quiet?

red or disorder
decide the mooring of a maroon/ed planet
a color forgotten in its own absence
like newton's leaf
round lense is opened & widens
gravel unravels & reveals the cut of style
you opened to me like a napkin once
& i wiped us & whipped the still folded ground awake
i ate pencils
when time itself was all that remained to lead us
& fell like an uprooted trellis onto the earth.

2.
exit to street
walk down stairs
which means walk up one flight
relax your tortured machines
momentarily
loosen your scratchy hands
etched into shadow
take the door to the right that leads
to the ocean
i'll be looking for you unless rush hour
or snow erase your footsteps
unfold yourself like a napkin
surrender to the darkness as a tired astronaut would
&
i'll cut into you the way this steel music cuts a line
across my sweaty neck

this house is all that is left of our squandering
this house & what is left inside it

give up the dead
they are no longer qualified to speak for us
give up the living
they have long run out of words
fall to the ground like a leaf
like the last endless sprig of gravity
like polka dots
or a severed tongue
fall fall fall
as the endlessly wired spires
vanish into secretion.



steve dalachinsky nyc 11/19/05











On the Way
(Thurston Moore, Gene Moore & Matts Gustaffson
@ Rehab 1/30/09)


on the way
purvey simulates
a breaker
tense is exasperated presence
present is always in the future
passed like a shadow on a purple steed
simple white shadow as WORD itself
(g)astronomical static operas the doors to
an unprotected school of all-alarms-gone-off-@-
once & here we go off on each other again
limited stops vs unlimited stops
as always depends on where ya gone ta
fanned out like bird icing on a plaid backdrop
purvey the area survey & serve up rev-U-lators
so much the click & record of perps
perple proper protagonists

here’s to the insulated red-boated buffet
facts filed down note by note
this scratching more a process
toward its own inevitable end
rather than a process
these inarticulations a catalogue
of sources
rather than the sources themselves
the meat of things
its very noise deemed to spread
while staying so ineloquently confined to
its selves never reaching in
thickness like a head-dress of flames
spreading out & over
cold night crowd’s perpendicularites
perps open to dis / closure.